


Dreams in the Light of Day

by AstroGirl



Category: The Orville (TV)
Genre: F/M, Nightmares, Relationship Talk, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 12:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Claire has bad dreams.  Isaac has a bad suggestion.





	Dreams in the Light of Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "the early hours before dawn." (Interestingly enough, this is the second time I've ended up writing that particular prompt.) It's rated "Mature" for some sexual content.
> 
> On my last fic for this pairing, I said I was really hoping the show would get renewed, because otherwise I might feel compelled to keep writing my own variations on how this relationship plays out in the wake of "Identity" forever. So I'm very glad it _has_ been officially renewed, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we'll get to see canon's take on things eventually. In the meantime, here's yet another variation...

In the weeks after, Claire has bad dreams.

They're predictable enough, most of them, in general outline, if not in the details. Often she's back in the shuttle bay watching Ty crawling into the access conduit, only this time instead of coming out on the other side and helping Yaphit send the signal, he gets stuck in there somehow. She can hear him calling out for her, crying for help, but there's no Yaphit, there's no one but her and him, and she is powerless to help, no matter how desperately she claws at the hole in the wall that's swallowed him.

In others, the _Orville_ is in ruins, choked with dust and rubble and fizzing with random electrical sparks. She searches the wreckage for her children and finds them, sometimes alive, sometimes dead. Sometimes alive when she finds them, but dead by the time she digs them out. Occasionally the setting changes and instead she is searching through the debris of her childhood home in Baltimore, while terrifying machines move, unseen but somehow sensed, just outside the windows.

It's all right, though. The horror of it always fades when she turns on the light, when she breathes deeply and reassures herself of the reality of what is and the unreality of what isn't. She knows how to handle dreams like these; she's had them before. Not every time she's been in a life-or-death situation in the line of duty, but often enough. She had them after the shuttle crash: dreams of shaking Ty's small, diseased body and knowing he would never wake up. Dreams of trying to find her children in an endless forest, never catching up with them but knowing that eventually something else would.

It's unpleasant, but it's not necessarily unhealthy. She knows her own mind well enough to know that this is how she processes trauma, this subconscious replaying of what might have happened and conscious recall of what did, and she knows that it will eventually pass. If it doesn't, or if the loss of sleep gets too bad, she can always prescribe herself some drugs, but she doesn't believe it will be necessary. Or helpful.

Therapy might be. She'd recommend some for a patient in her position. Which makes it unfortunate that she's the only licensed therapist on the ship. She could attend video sessions long-distance, but in the wake of six thousand Union deaths, she can't quite imagine looking even the most professional of mental health professionals in the eye and saying, "I'm having trouble sorting out my feelings about my Kaylon lover."

Because she has to admit that she is. Isaac's implicitly bound up in all her nightmares, of course: he's both the reason she has them and the reason the worst of them never came true. But it's the dreams of Isaac himself that _really_ bother her, even if on the surface most of them are less disturbing. Sometimes it's only him walking down a corridor away from her. She calls out to him but he doesn't turn around, even though she knows that he's heard her. She also knows, in the way you simply know things in dreams, that he's leaving to do something horrible, something there will be no coming back from. If he would only turn his head, only stop to listen to her, all would be well. But she wakes up before she finds out if he does.

In other dreams she tells him she loves him, tells him every secret or vulnerable thing she's ever felt or thought about him, but he just sits there, unmoving. Impassive. Empty. Until finally she reaches out to touch him and realizes he is dead, or deactivated at least, and has been the entire time, while she poured her heart out into nothing.

Once, she dreams they're having sex. He's holding her effortlessly, her legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts pressing her hard against the wall at her back. They did that once, in the simulator. It was wonderful. In the dream, it's wonderful again, sexy and thrilling. His body feels human against and inside hers, but his face is his own, and that's sexy and thrilling, too, until his eyes go suddenly, terrifyingly red and she wakes up with a gasp, her body pulsing with fear and arousal.

After that one, she finds herself addressing her own subconscious. _Really?,_ she asks it, wryly. _You can't be just a_ little _more imaginative than that?_

**

But tonight, it turns out it can. This dream is different from the others. It's calm, peaceful. Happy, even. She's lying in her bed, casually and comfortably naked. Isaac is with her, his arm wrapped around her. They're spooning, like any ordinary couple.

She looks down at herself, at the heavy curve of her stomach, and sees, or remembers, that she's pregnant. She's carrying Isaac's child. Even in the dream some part of her knows how utterly absurd that is, but it doesn't matter. It still feels right. The right future, the right life. The right man to give her what she's always wanted and always thought she'd have to do on her own.

Isaac's metal fingers splay gently across her belly. "I am pleased that we have created organic life," he says, and his perpetually even voice sounds satisfied and warm.

As she wakes, the lingering sense of contentment and security and hopeful possibility slams up hard against a feeling of gut-churning wrongness, and it's if she's been betrayed all over again.

No, she tells herself as she shakes her head against the pillow, trying to dispel the images of the dream, "betrayed" isn't entirely fair, even if it's technically true. Because it's not his actual betrayal that hurts, the irrefutable fact that he was working for their enemies. She can forgive him that. It hasn't even been as difficult as she thought it would be. Every time she looks at Ty and remembers that he's alive right now because Isaac made the choice he did, she forgives him again.

But it doesn't help. It doesn't help her lying alone in bed, missing him and knowing that what they had was never what she believed it was. That no matter how clear-eyed she thought she was about his alienness, he'd always been more alien than she was ready for. Alien enough to coolly and logically contemplate wiping out entire sentient species. Alien enough to lie to her and feel nothing at all about it. Alien enough to be ready to leave without a goodbye and to not understand why the people who loved him would even care.

It embarrasses her a little that it's that last one that hurts the worst.

This is ridiculous. She's never going to get back to sleep this way. Blinking blearily, she rolls over and checks the time. It's an awkward hour: too early to be awake, late enough not to be worth the effort it would to take to settle her mind down until she can drift off again.

She sighs and sits up, trying to decide what to do. She has research she could work on -- it's always good to take advantage of a few hours when she's unlikely to be disturbed – but she really isn't in the mood. 

What she wants, honestly, is company. Someone to share a cup of coffee with, maybe. To talk to about anything at all. Of course, no one is going to be awake at this hour.

Well, no. That's not true. Isaac will be awake.

She thinks about that for a moment. Is it a terrible idea? It seems like it should be, but maybe it's not. Maybe he's the one person she _can_ talk to. Maybe it's time she did.

She dresses quickly, before she can change her mind, tells the computer to call her if the boys stir from their beds, and goes to find him.

**

To her surprise, he's in his quarters, not in the science lab. She wonders if he's spending more time here lately, avoiding the more populated parts of the ship and the hostile looks he sometimes gets from the crew. Probably not. He isn't necessarily good at picking up on such things, or knowing what to do about them if he does.

"Doctor Finn," he says, answering his door, and she almost imagines he sounds surprised to see her. "This is an unusual hour for you to be awake. Do you require some form of assistance?"

Well, now there's a question. "Can I come in?" she says. She notices she's wringing her hands a little in front of her, and forces herself to stop. It's a bad habit.

"Of course," he says, and moves aside for her.

She takes a deep breath as the door slides shut behind her and tells herself to just get on with whatever it is she's doing here. "It's not work related," she says. Most of their interactions lately have been. "I just... Well, we haven't really talked much since..." She would trail off and leave it there for him to fill in the rest himself, but she knows Isaac – precise, literal Isaac – well enough to know that won't work. "Since the Kaylon attack."

"Comparatively speaking," he says, "we have not. Would you like to talk now?"

She draws in another long breath, gathering her courage. "Yes," she says.

"Very well. On what subject do you wish to converse?"

"Can we sit down?" She gestures across the room. His quarters are mostly taken up by scientific equipment and portable computer consoles, but he's left one sofa and the coffee table as some sort of gesture towards the needs of his biological crewmates. Not that anyone but her regularly spends any time here. Spent any time here.

"Certainly." He moves to the sofa and sits down with precise, fluid grace, his hands held out in front of him. 

He gave her an amazing orgasm with those hands on this couch once. She's going to try very hard not to think about that right now.

He looks expectantly at her as she sits. Or maybe it's not expectantly. Maybe she's projecting onto him. She needs to stop doing that. She _really_ needs to stop doing that. But how does she even talk to him without it?

"Doctor Finn?" he says, after a long moment goes by without her finding a useful answer to that question. "Are you unwell?"

"No, I'm fine, Isaac, I..." She stops. Reconsiders. "Actually," she says. "Maybe I am a little unwell. I've been having trouble sleeping."

"I am sorry to hear that." She waits to see if he's going to add anything to that, but he doesn't.

"And it's hard," she says, reaching carefully for every word, "dealing with the emotional aftereffects, when you've been hurt by someone you loved."

"Are you referring to me?" he asks, one hand making a small gesture at his chest. His tone of voice, of course, changes not at all.

She feels a small flare of anger, observes it, and waits for it to pass. It does, as quickly as it came. "Yes, I'm referring to you."

"I see," he says. His hand flexes away from his chest, and towards her again. "Is there any way in which I can assist with your difficulties?" 

He heart gives a small, traitorous lurch. _He cares,_ it whispers to her. _You see? He cares._ This, too, she lets go and pushes aside. "I honestly don't know. I wish I did."

"Perhaps," he says, "if you were to elucidate the problem?"

Despite herself, she smiles a little. She's often found something endearing in his analytical approach, his faith that any problem can be solved with logic and information. Even if it hasn't always worked out as a dating strategy.

She's willing to enter into the spirit of it now, anyway. It's almost a relief, to be able to approach things this way. She takes a moment to put her thoughts in order.

"All right," she says. "Here's the problem, then: I miss you. I _miss_ you, Isaac. It's hard to admit it, even to myself. But I do. I liked having you in my life, and in Ty and Marcus's lives. I wanted that. I wanted what I thought we could have together. Very much. I don't know if you can understand the pain of losing that, if you experience anything remotely like it. But it's been difficult for me."

"Do you wish to reinstate our romantic relationship?" he asks, and she can't tell whether he's asking because it's what he wants, or if he's simply drawing a logical connection between an abstract problem and an obvious solution. Well, of course she can't. That's part of the problem, isn't it?

"Honestly? Part of me does." She hadn't meant to say any of this to him, not really. But maybe both of them deserve to hear the truth. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

He tilts his head a little. A quizzical gesture, or an imitation of one. "May I ask why not?"

"I..." she begins, and then stops herself. Maybe she doesn't need to be careful with the "I" statements. Isaac has no feelings to hurt. Right? "You weren't who I thought you were," she says, instead. "Some of that's your fault. I mean, some if it is really, _really_ your fault." Somehow, she manages something like a smile. "But some of it is mine. I expected you to be more human than you are."

"I believe I understand," he says. "You have concluded that you would prefer to mate with one of your own species."

"No!" The denial comes out a little too quickly, a little too loud. "At least," she amends, "I don't think that's it. No."

"Then I do not understand," he says. "To what expectations do you refer?"

"Oh, I don't know, Isaac. How about the expectation that you wouldn't turn around and leave without even wanting to say goodbye?" She doesn't like the sound of the weary bitterness in her voice, but right this moment, she can't be bothered trying to fight it. "Or expecting you to have a goddamn sense of morality?" She feels the prickling sensation of tears building in her eyes and blinks them away, rubs a hand slowly across her face. "Sorry," she says, although she's not at all sure that she is. 

He stares at her with his unblinking blue gaze, and she can't help but remember that there are weapons behind his eyes. 

"I can't trust you," she says. "As complicated as it all is, I think that's what it really boils down to. Humans have a saying: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I'd have to be an idiot to put myself through that again. Wouldn't I?"

"If I may make an observation?" he says.

"Please. Observe away." She's a little tired of being the only one really talking in this conversation, even while she recognizes that thought as unfair.

"Your concerns," he says, "would appear to be based upon an outdated premise. It would be impossible for me to leave in that fashion again. I no longer have anywhere to go. Nor do I have reason to perpetrate any further deception. I may not share human moral sensibilities, but when it comes to the survival of organic life, we are in full agreement about what you would call 'the right thing to do.' I therefore see no necessity for conflict."

Claire sighs. "I know. I know all that, and believe me, I do appreciate it." _But it's really not the point,_ she's about to say, except he's already speaking again.

"Would a formal commitment assist in assuaging your concerns?" he says.

"A...?" Issac's demeanor hasn't changed in the slightest, but it feels like there's suddenly been a shift in this conversation that she doesn't quite understand and really, really needs to. "I'm sorry, a what?"

"A formal commitment," he says. "To maintain and prioritize a relationship with you. Would that be sufficient to reestablish trust?"

"Wait. Wait. Are you...?" Her brain is seizing up. She cannot make words form properly in her mind, let alone come out of her mouth. She closes her eyes, opens them, and tries again. "Isaac, are you... asking me to _marry_ you?"

She's expecting him to deny it, to express confusion about the very concept, but he doesn't. "Is it acceptable to make the inquiry in this fashion?" he says, instead. "I understand there is a ritual commonly enacted on such occasions. Would you like me to--?"

He begins to stand up, and desperately, without thinking, she grabs at him and pushes him back down before he can... What? Go and synthesize an engagement ring? Get down on one knee? "No," she hears herself saying. "No, no, please. Don't."

He allows her to settle him back into his seat and waits with seemingly infinite patience for her answer.

"Isaac," she says, as evenly as she can manage when half her heart is melting with warmth for him and how very hard he tries, and half is screaming in agonized frustration. "Do you even understand what marriage _is_?"

"Yes," he says. "It is a formalized social and legal commitment reflecting the intent to form a long-term or permanent union with a romantic partner. Given the difference in our lifespans, it would not be at all difficult for me to enter into an arrangement that, for you, would qualify as long-term or permanent."

"Aren't you romantic," she mutters, but it's just her mouth running on autopilot while her mind tries desperately to catch up.

Undaunted, he continues, "A willingness to enter into such an arrangement may reasonably be construed as a trustworthy indication of intent, which may help to address your concerns. And I believe the benefits for you would be significant. Were we to adopt this course of action, I could resume fulfilling your sexual requirements and assisting with the care of your children."

Claire buries her face in her hands, just for a moment. If she were to start crying now, she's pretty sure she wouldn't be able to stop. So she doesn't, but it's hard. Almost as hard as lowering her hands and facing him again.

"Isaac," she says, as gently as she can. "I... appreciate that. I really do. But you don't fix a relationship by getting married."

"Why not?" He sounds... mildly curious.

"It just doesn't work that way. I wish it did." She's not sure that she's ever wished so hard for an easy answer in her life.

"Then... How do we fix it?" She thinks, just for a moment, that he sounds as lost and lonely as she is. But it's probably only her imagination again. 

"Oh, honey, I'm not sure we do," she says, barely realizing she's slipped back into an old endearment. "Maybe we just have to figure out how to get over it. To have a strictly professional relationship. I mean, if the Captain and Kelly can do it..."

"I do not think," he says, "that the Captain and Commander Grayson can reasonably be described as 'over it'."

Well. It's not like she can argue with that.

She takes his hand. Despite everything, the gesture still feels natural. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Doctor."

"Why do you _want_ to fix it?" He's not an organic being. He doesn't feel love, not like she does. He hasn't been programmed to want the things that humans want. She has to remember this. He's not a mindless, heartless machine. He's not her fantasy of a lover, a husband, a father for her kids, either. He's never going to be that. But he is _something_ , an entity in himself, and if they're going to get through this, she thinks she needs to start understanding what. Is it something like concern he's experiencing? Something like guilt? Some detached, pragmatic desire to adopt the social conventions of the people he's found himself stuck with? Or is it nothing at all?

Isaac's fingers tighten, very slightly, around hers. "After I was given permission to stay on board the _Orville_ ," he says, "you presented me with a human cliché. 'Home is wherever you make it.' I... have been considering this."

"Yes?" she says. Her voice is quiet, barely above a breath, but she knows he can hear her.

"Yes," he replies. "If this assessment is correct, and I have the ability to create a new home, then I would prefer to do so with you and your children." He turns her hand over in his and lets it go, "I am sorry if my actions have precluded this possibility."

"Oh," she says, and now she can't stop the tears after all, and no longer entirely wants to try. "Oh. _Isaac_."

"Yes, Doctor?" His voice is still even. Unemotional. Not human. But, just maybe, not human in a way she can understand. 

She wipes at her face and takes his hand again, his metal fingers cool and firm against the tear-dampened skin of her own. "That," she says, when she feels able to speak again, "is actually a pretty good reason to ask someone to marry you."

"Does that mean you wish to alter your response?" he asks. He strokes the back of her hand with the fingers she's not currently holding. It feels nice. It's not something she ever taught him to do.

"I'm not changing my answer." She hesitates. Maybe the sudden rush of hope she's feeling is just her fooling herself again. Maybe this sense that she's finally seeing the real Isaac is just another mirage. Maybe in the the light of artificial morning, what she's about to say will seem like a really bad idea. "But maybe we can start over and see where it gets us."

He tilts his head towards her. She feels, not for the first time, the flatteringly intense focus of his attention. "Start over in what fashion?"

Maybe there's a logical, analytical answer that she could give him, but if there is, it isn't coming to her. What comes to her, instead, is a memory. "Do you remember our first date?," she says. "I told you that part of the excitement was in getting to know each other?"

"I have retained that portion of our conversation in my memory."

"You were very sweet afterward about letting yourself get to know me," she says. About that, and so many other things. "But that first time, when I asked you about yourself, do you remember that?"

"Yes," he says. He is very still.

"You lied to me, Isaac. I asked you about your mission, on our first date, and you looked me in the eye, and you lied to me about it." She feels a flare of anger, thinking about it again, but it's a soft and distant anger. Mostly, she feels the familiar dull ache of missing that easier Isaac, the one who never really existed. But he isn't the one who matters, is he? The one who matters is the Isaac in front of her.

"Yes," the Isaac in front of her says. His voice is very slightly quieter now.

"That's not a good start to a relationship." If he were human, that statement would be rhetorical. But he's not. He's not, and he probably needs her to tell him these things. Which is all right. She _can_ tell him these things.

But he doesn't ask for clarification. He doesn't signal an understanding of her words, or a lack of understanding, or abruptly change the subject.

"I am sorry," he says. Simply that.

She reminds herself not to read too much emotion into that statement. But she believes it, anyway. Whether she's fooling herself or not, she believes it.

"Well, then," she says. "Maybe that's where we start. No marriage proposals. Okay? No romantic fantasies. No _lying_. No..." She falters for a moment, bites the inside of her lip, and carries on. Honesty has gotten her this far, after all. "No reasons for me to wonder afterward if you were there because you wanted to be or because you were gathering information on a potential enemy. Just two people who want to spend time in each other's company. Do you think you can do that?"

He leans towards her slightly. "I believe so," he says. "Yes. But precisely what is it that you are proposing?" 

She draws in a breath and takes his hand in hers again. "All right, Isaac," she says, "Would you like to go on a date with me?"


End file.
